


Blessings, disguised

by SecondStarOnTheLeft



Series: 2016 Christmas Fics [9]
Category: 15th Century CE RPF, Historical RPF
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-12-25
Updated: 2016-12-25
Packaged: 2018-09-11 06:53:18
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 539
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8964046
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SecondStarOnTheLeft/pseuds/SecondStarOnTheLeft
Summary: Anna Lovell made no mention of any doctor attending on Anne, when Richard asked after his wife at the door.





	

**Author's Note:**

  * For [tywinning](https://archiveofourown.org/users/tywinning/gifts), [La Reine Noire (lareinenoire)](https://archiveofourown.org/users/lareinenoire/gifts).



> For [PSPQ,](http://poorshadowspaintedqueens.tumblr.com) via me, from [Lauren.](http://joannalannister.tumblr.com)

Anna Lovell greets him at the door, in Francis’ absence, with a smile.

She does not mention the doctor he finds sitting in Anne’s solar, neat in his robes and pale with surprise at Richard’s arrival.

“You are dismissed, Doctor,” Anne says, smiling a little, the polite sort of smile that means nothing at all. “Thank you for your time - please be sure to see Mistress Lovell before you leave, won’t you?”

The doctor bows, stays bowed as he passes Richard for the door, and is gone in a moment. 

Richard’s stomach is twisting more even than his back, terror leaving him cold - why in the world should Anne need a doctor? Was she ill? Had she caught some sickness when she’d visited him at court?

“Come, husband,” she said, gesturing to the chair the doctor had just left. “Come, sit with me.” 

Could it be a quiet quickening of her heart, such as had stolen away the Queen’s mother? Or something more malignant, something slipped into her wine to leave her cold and him bereft?

“You are panicking,” she said, rising slowly and taking his face in her pale, soft hands. “Calm yourself, my lord, there is no need for such concern, I promise you.”

But she has been crying, he can see it in the shine of her eyes, the redness below them, and she never cries unless desperately upset. 

She does not look ill, though. Her cheeks are still pink, but not red with strain, her lips not chilled-blue, her eyes tear-bright but not fever-bright, and there is no hint of a shake in her hands, no sway in her stand. 

Her hips, even, are still gently full under his hands, fuller than her slight frame would suggest. He has always loved the roundness of her hips, so at odds with the slight line of her back and shoulders, her high, small breasts, and it is a relief to find them still as he loves.

She kisses him as though nothing is amiss, but still he doubts. It seems so strange that she might be his wife at all, and he is afraid that the world will prove itself cruel enough to deprive them of even a single full year of happiness.

“Come,” she says again. “Come sit with me a while.”

He is still wearing his travelling clothes, muck on his boots and dust in his cloak and hair, but Anne pays it no mind. She never does, when it is just them.

She kisses him again in lieu of speaking, and smiles a true smile.

“I am not ill, my love,” she says, hand to his cheek, scratching through the stubble he will shave before taking her to bed - she hates the redness it leaves on her thighs and breasts. “Quite the opposite, I think. I don’t believe I’ve ever been quite so well.”

He turns his head to kiss her hand, not believing her, and then she draws his hand to her lap.

No, not to her lap. To her belly.

“We are both well, Richard,” she says, tears once more shining in her bright eyes, and he feels tears well in his own to match. “The child and I both are well.”


End file.
